


The Run and Go

by twinSky



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Gen, M/M, Nogitsune Trauma, So much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 07:06:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1809655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twinSky/pseuds/twinSky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moving on is a process, a long and hard progression of events that everyone is doing after the whole mess that was the Nogitsune.</p><p>Everyone is doing pretty well, as well as they possibly can, with it.</p><p>Stiles isn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Run and Go

**Author's Note:**

> I am smack-dab in the middle of exams (i have a math exam tomorrow which i'm just goanna fail probably tbh) and i got upset at studying so here I am  
> Finally finishing this damn fic
> 
> Another song fic except this time we managed to actually use the song  
> -  
> [song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ITDWp3qqZYk)  
> -  
> Warning: Stiles has might what technically be called an eating disorder? I don't know what constitutes one but he doesn't eat a lot (barely at all), on purpose  
> -  
> (will i ever learn what goes in the additional tags? doubt it  
> enjoy guys goanna go cry over courses)

_I can't take them on my own, my own_

_Oh, I'm not the one you know, you know_

_I have killed a man and all I know_

_Is I am on the run and go._

-

When Stiles looks Scott in the eye that first time after the Nogitsune spits him up, there is a look of relief, of happiness, of joy, in Scott’s gaze.

Stiles, for the life –hah, life –of him, can’t discern why.

He’s cold (he hasn’t been warm for weeks), he’s confused (what else is new), and is only not panicking because he’s too numb to do anything else.

He’s wrapped in bandages, wearing the Nogitsune’s clothes ( _I am you and you are me, we will never be alone_ ), and Scott’s making a motion as if he wants to remove them but Stiles _doesn’t_. He doesn’t want to see the skin underneath because he can’t bear to see a body that it is his but cannot be his –cannot be _him_ , at all.

His body was the one that grew up, that watched his mother slowly die, went to school and was best friends with Scott, which fell in and out of love with Lydia, which has been through seventeen years of life and one and a half of supernatural nonsense. His body is the one that left with Lydia in tow not even minutes ago.

This body, he doesn’t know what this body is, but it isn’t his, and his body is gone and he’ll never get it back. He adds it to the list of things he’s (it’s) ruined, and is never, not ever, getting back.

(Later; when Melissa is checking him over and assures him that this body is healthy, that it is fine and probably perfectly human, he doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know what to feel because he thinks it should be relief but it’s just dread at the fact this is it –that’s the nail in the coffin. This body is as real as he’s getting and his old one is gone forever.

Maybe, it’s supposed to be a sign of new beginnings, all he can see it as, is a constant reminder of what happened and how bad he fucked up.)

-

Allison dies, Aiden dies (A.A –Allison Argent –and what even was Aiden’s last name –it’s like a horrible joke), and the whole hospital might as well be a morgue. There is death everywhere and he is at the centre of it, he was (not) the _cause_ of it.

It was all (not) him, he is (not) to blame and he has no idea what to do with anything.

He feels lost, he knows he’s confused, and wonders where he’s supposed to go from here.

-

When the Nogitsune died –shatters and breaks, turns to ash and dust and scatters –Stiles felt a piece of him leave with it, and still feels the cracks that formed from its departure. 

And cracks don’t heal, cracks spread out, they get worse until the whole thing breaks and shatters (just like the Nogitsune) and there’s nothing left to be done.

He wonders how long it takes until the cracks become too much and he crumbles beneath them.

-

Moving on is a process, a long and hard progression of events that everyone is doing after this whole mess.

Everyone is doing pretty well, as well as they possibly _can_ , with it.

Stiles isn’t.

-

_Don't wanna call you in the nighttime_

_Don't wanna give you all my pieces_

_Don't wanna hand you all my trouble_

_Don't wanna give you all my demons_

_You'll have to watch me struggle_

_From several rooms away_

-

Stiles is always learning, when nothing holds your attention for too long, you end up reading up about so many different topics and ideas. You learn to find new knowledge to add just to keep yourself distracted, to keep yourself thinking and moving.

(And now, more than ever, Stiles needs constant distraction.)

So he learns, he learns how to quiet his night terrors (constant, never ending, always there). To make it so his screams are quieter, so there’s a split second (and he’s getting better at waking up slowly, so that he can have time to feel the scream rise in his throat before bubbling out) where he’s able to turn into the pillow and muffle his scream as much as possible. It takes a while, and he started with loosely tying a shirt around him just so even when he did scream it would be subtly quieter. That plan didn’t really work, his dad still heard him and had looked even more panicked when he saw it –had thought he was trying to suffocate himself, and, well, Stiles just hadn’t really thought that one through that well at all.

As of late, Stiles hasn’t really been the best thinker in general.

Still, Stiles learns how to take care of himself, learns how to, at the very least, pretend he’s getting better, that he doesn’t wake up screaming every night. That he barely sleeps anymore in part because even if he did he’d just wake up what feels like seconds later and in part, that he’s still scared that if he falls asleep he’ll wake up and not be him anymore.

As if he’s himself now.

Just like when his mom died, Stiles picks up his pieces and shoves them until they are roughly whole looking and goes on with his life until he is (actually never) whole. Just like when his mom died, he’s secretly (selfishly maybe, he just doesn’t want his dad to see) glad his dad works the night shift so consistently. Precious moments when he’s under no one’s gaze and has no reason to even pretend he’s fine.

Occasionally, he’ll card through the contacts on his phone (it’s really very few, only a couple of contacts from outside of the pack from scattered group projects) and consider hitting the call button, consider just talking to someone. His finger will hover over the screen on especially hard nights, when he’s sitting on the floor leaning against his bed trying to calm himself down, stop his tears. He eventually just doesn’t, puts the phone down and takes deep breaths until he finally falls asleep like that.

On those same nights, he’ll always wake up on his bed and wonder if his dad has taken to checking up on him.

He doesn’t ask though, is perfectly glad believing it’s him and that it’s just an unspoken thing between them.

-

The day of Allison’s funeral (and Aiden’s, of the people who died in the Sherriff’s department, of the people from the hospital –of all those deaths he ( _thenogitsunenothimnothimn_ othim) caused) Stiles can’t bring himself to walk through the doors of the funeral house, can’t bring himself to even approach the cemetery.

He went with everyone, walked with them up the sidewalk, but couldn’t enter, as if some invisible barrier blocked his entry. They tried to convince him, tried edging him towards it, but he remained in his spot and shook his head. He waved them through and just sunk to his knees straining to hear what little he could.

The people who walked by gave him sympathetic looks and he wondered what they thought he was going through, how it felt to have lost a friend and so many familiar faces from the Sherriff’s department. He wondered what they would think if they knew it was(n’t) his fault.

Horribly (horrible, horrid, disgustingly), Stiles can’t help but be thankful that everyone who saw him (the Nogitsune) that night in the hospital is dead. (Run through, sliced apart, gutted by Oni he (had not) controlled.) Is glad that the tapes that had caught the whole thing had been destroyed by the pack and disposed of, that on top of the ever present pressure on his being he doesn’t have to deal with the disgusted and fear filled looks of people whenever they saw him. He isn’t sure if he would have been able to stay if that was the case on top of everything else.

Everyone around him has been (is –always will be, always _have_ been) dying and Stiles is worried about _himself._ It’s almost laughable, but he manages to not as he sinks his head further into his knees and berates himself about how fucking selfish and horrible he is.

 Later –he doesn’t know how much later but the ceremony’s still going on in the distance, he can hear the vague murmurings of people speaking –someone leans against him, the fence that borders the cemetery the only thing between them, and they refuse to leave no matter how much he asks or demands.

He never looks to see who it is, and is glad because that means he has no one to look at in embarrassment when everything finally feels too much and he just cries.

For the moment, he clings on to the warmth they bring like a comforting hug, like a well-intentioned squeeze on the shoulder, for the moment he pretends things are almost all right.

-

School happens, or more that it never stopped and it was Stiles, who stayed stagnant.

He goes to his classes (barely pays attention), goes to lacrosse practice (Coach has just about given up on trying to get him to practice), and eats (just enough to not die and all). Stiles is living (Stiles is surviving, and even then), just barely, and it probably doesn’t count as living at all.

School is hard though, because he has the vague notion of wanting to try (he’s spent years trying to beat Lydia, and he was so, so, close to finally doing that) and work harder but he also just wants to curl up and do nothing. It’s made harder when there’s so much to catch up on (and more piles on because his school work is boring, a lot of things are boring, but he doesn’t know what it is that he wants), when he can’t even look at his friends because there’s so much he sees there that he can’t – doesn’t want to – see there.

He doesn’t alienate himself from them, Scott wouldn’t allow it –none of them would, Stiles knows this even though he wishes they did sometimes –but he just. He isn’t himself anymore (except he is, he is Stiles, he is just Stiles _after_ and there is no going back) and sometimes he wonders if they look at him and just wonder. He does it too, he wouldn’t, couldn’t, blame them for it. He misses the version of himself that was not broken and breaking further, the version of himself that was not complete not right, because Stiles has not been whole or right in a long time, but was still better off than this. The version of himself that was capable of laughter and jokes even when he didn’t really feel it.

Stiles misses himself, he misses _before_. And not for the first time curses the rules of the world, because Stiles doesn’t care if you can’t go back. He needs to go back.

He blinks, wondering how long he’s been ignoring his friends in favour of wallowing in his own thoughts and would feel guilty if he wasn’t already constantly overcome with the emotion –just adds the piece onto his ever growing and never diminishing pile.

He says something –isn’t sure what, but they let him go and their worrying looks aren’t any worse than usual –and heads out the door.

School had ended a while ago but they were still there for some reason, he didn’t know why, didn’t bother to ask, just followed when Scott led.

-

When he gets home there’s some pasta on the stove, it’s still warm as is the stovetop but other than that everything looks the same, feels the same. There are no dishes in the sink and nothing is out of place. He sighs and pulls out a dish, serves himself some (more than he will probably eat but sometimes he hopes that if it’s there maybe he’ll feel obliged to eat it) and sits down to eat. His dad won’t be home tonight and he doesn’t plan to sleep so he wonders what he’ll do as he shoves –admittedly good –pasta into his mouth.

It’s not the first time it had happened, that he’ll come home and there’ll just be food waiting for him, and he’s just grown used to it. Someone in the pack is feeding him, or maybe it’s all of them and they cycle through, he’s not really sure.

It’s a nice gesture and he appreciates the fact they are actively trying to make sure he doesn’t die of starvation or malnutrition but, but he just doesn’t really care about it.

-

He doesn’t even eat half the plate and spends the rest of the night watching television turned down so low he can’t hear it until he enters a state that’s as close as he plans on getting to sleeping any time soon.

He feels disappointed, but he’s not exactly sure why.

-

_I am up against the wall, the wall_

_For I hear them coming down the hall_

_I have killed a man and all I know_

_Is I am on the run and go._

-

Can’t breathe, can’t talk, can’t do.

(But he’s fine, he’s fine, nothing’s wrong, he is fine, he is whole, he isn’t breaking isn’t cracking, isn’t shattering to a million tiny pieces and being blown to the wind while only a small, small, small, piece of him is all that remains.)

He’s at the school he thinks (he thinks, and he thinks, and he thinks again but how trustworthy are his own thoughts nowadays) but he doesn’t know why he’s here, can’t remember the time, the date. And that’s –that’s bad, so bad.

He’s pressed against something and it’s cold against his skin (the lockers, a wall?) but he doesn’t know why he’s here, how did he even get here?

He takes a breath in but he doesn’t feel it, isn’t even sure he did, he’s –he’s –He doesn’t –can’t.

Deep breathes. In and out, in and out, he knows how to deal with this. (Whatever this, is.)

There’s someone gasping near him, they sound panicked and Stiles worries, about himself, about this person, about what’s happening. He takes another breath in and the person near him sounds like they try to take one in and fail, flounder and flop and then make a sound that sounds like wheezing.

There’s a voice, he thinks, dazedly and behind his (panic?) he is sure someone is talking but he can’t really hear it, just noise that vaguely resembles words.

The person (who are they, why are they here) makes a choking sound, followed by what might be a sniffle and then something wet falls onto Stiles’ hands. He looks down (and where had he even been looking before?) and there’s water on his hands, clear and translucent and still falling drip by drip. Something is missing, a piece that won’t fit, and everything about the situation feels vaguely off, vaguely wrong.

The voice is stronger, still unintelligible but its presence is more persistent than before and he’s somewhat but not really aware that he’s shaking, moving forwards and back with pressure at his shoulders.

The person gasps, wheezes, and Stiles’ chest feels tight, burning; he clutches at his chest and ignores the water still dripping, dripping, dropping. He ignores it until he can’t anymore and he finds his hand traveling up to find the trail of dripping water. It goes up and up until he’s pressing his palm to his eyes, trying to stop the stream of water –tears, they are _tears_ , not water –from escaping. The person makes a wet choking sound and he realizes that that person is _him_ that he is crying, gasping, that he is choking, that he can’t breathe and his chest burns because there is no air getting in.

“Stiles!” The voice, that is real, that is not him, calls and this time Stiles does hear it but it doesn’t make a difference. He is still (so still) and shaking at the same time. His breathing is laboured and he can’t stop crying but still he manages to remove his palms from his eyes, manages to look at the person who is speaking.

“Stiles,” Scott’s voice calls again and the world slowly fades back in. He’s on the floor, wedged into the corner between a wall and a row of lockers and Scott is shaking him and won’t stop. “Stiles please.” He shudders, hates the tone in Scott’s voice, hates the he’s the reason it’s there.

“ Sc –Scott, I –what?” His words are jumbled and he struggles to take in air, to ease the burning in his chest.

“You ran out of class, threw your chair back and bolted out of the room.” Another voice speaks and he takes a moment to place it, he looks up to see Lydia brows furrowed in concern. They cause creases in her normally smooth skin and he frowns.

“Why?” He asks, but even he knows it’s a stupid question. His tears are stopping but he can still feel the occasional drop on his shaking hands.

(One, two, three four, five, one, two, three, four, five and repeat)

“We were hoping you could tell us that. You, you ran so fast and by the time we found you, you were here and terrified. Wouldn’t notice us, wouldn’t stop crying –your panic attacks have never been that bad Stiles.” He thinks that in a normal person’s voice there might be some sort of accusation in there, all Stiles can see in Scott’s is genuine worry and he just wishes Scott wouldn’t direct any of it at him whatsoever.

He opens his mouth to answer and then promptly closes it, doesn’t know what to say.

“It’s alright if you don’t know.” Scott tries, and Lydia echoes her agreement. He nods, (once, twice, thrice) and stares at nothing.

“I can’t remember.” He says after a moment, when the words had actually sunk in, and they had said it was fine but it absolutely is not. “ _I can’t remember,_ ” he says again, panic rising in his tone and he bends his fingers, one by one, repeatedly.

_(One, two, three, four five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. One, two, three, fourfivesix, seveneightnineten. Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten)_

“Stiles it’s fine!”

“It’s not, it’s not, I can’t remember, I can’t remember oh god.” His breathes are coming in as short shallow gasps (they have no pattern, no countable rhythm) and he knows those won’t provide any of the air he needs. Lydia and Scott’s voices are coming in from both sides –and they are loud, so loud, too loud, telling him to calm down and breathe –but he can’t, doesn’t, wont, care about that, about them.

Black starts to edge across his vision and he welcomes it’s embrace as it consumes him whole.

-

The first thing he’s aware of is movement, a soft rumbling, and a pleasant cool. He blinks and then again (and then again) and realizes he’s inside a car. It’s unfamiliar, looks too nice to be Lydia’s or his. He would panic, or do anything really, but his limbs feel heavy and useless and his chest is still tight and aching.

He cranes his head as much as he can (which isn’t much, because he’s comfortable and he’s rarely that nowadays and doesn’t want to ruin it) to try to get a look at who’s driving.

Really, he should have realized it was Derek because no one else he knows owns a car this nice, and even though he’s technically never been inside a Camaro this is about as nice as he would have imagined it to be.

Derek must apparently notice his gaze because he looks over and gives a tentative smile, as if he’s not sure it’s alright, if it’s okay to do that.

A million thoughts run through his head but instead he rests his head back against the seat and goes to sleep, the burning in his chest finally easing.

-

When he wakes for the second time he’s in his bed and he can hear the faint clinking  (eleven and counting) and thudding that is movement in the kitchen. He doesn’t want to move really, but if it’s Derek then he thinks he should say thank you, or sorry for the bother (because that’s all Stiles really is).

Seeing Derek in the kitchen isn’t a surprising sight (one pot, three bowls, four spoons), a part of him thinks it should be, mainly because he’s never seen Derek do much of anything, but he takes in the sight with the same apathy he’s taken to most of everything these days.

At the very least, he knows who’s been leaving him the food.

“Thanks for the drive home.” He says, and wonders if he should thank him for the food too or if that’s supposed to remain unsaid just as it always have.

“Lydia called, demanded I come get you.” Derek replies, not looking up from whatever he’s making.

“Oh,” he manages, and looks of to a random point in the wall, “sorry for bothering.” It sounds about right that he manages to ruin people’s day without even trying.

“It wasn’t a –” Derek sighs, breathes out through his nose and turns to look at him. “I didn’t mind picking you up, Stiles, it’s fine.”

“Alright.”

It’s silent for the rest of the time Derek is over (four hours, thirty-six minutes), aside from the noises of food making, he finished the meal and they eat in the same (probably awkward, but Stiles can’t tell) silence. He eats a little more than he usually does, nervous under Derek’s gaze and that somehow encourages him to eat more than less (maybe because less probably means not at all) and scrambles to clean up when they’re done despite the fact Derek insists he can do it. It’s Stiles’ house and he already let Derek cook he won’t make him clean up too.

They watch television for awhile (one hour fifty-seven) and Derek motions to leave around the time he’s struggling to keep his eyes open –it’s weird, being so tired, considering he’s barely been able to sleep lately. He nods, and stumbles after him to open the door.

“G‘night D’rek.” He thinks he might be smiling, but he’s not really sure, it’s been awhile since he has –truthfully anyway.

“Good night Stiles.”

-

He dreams that night, not nightmares, not darkness, he dreams.

It’s nice and pleasant and he wakes up crying but for once, it’s not because he’s afraid and confused.

-

_Cold nights under siege from accusations_

_Cerebral thunder in one-way conversations_

-

There’s a period where things almost seem as if they are getting better, his nightmares stop and it’s easier to breathe, to eat, to be.

He has no idea why he thought it would last.

-

He so rarely remembers his nightmares anymore, he knows, technically, what they are about. He knows why some days he wakes up crying and others he wakes up with the word no in the back of his of throat, clawing to get out.

(He knows why sometimes his first thought of a day is a riddle –why his fingers jitter and shake for long moments after –he knows why sometimes he wakes up confused as if something is missing. As if there’s somewhere he’s supposed to be, something he’s supposed to do. He knows why sometimes when he talks it feels _wrong_ as if the words coming out of his mouth shouldn’t sound that way. And it itches and itches until it’s easier to just not talk at all.)

Stiles knows so many things, even when he technically shouldn’t, even when he wasn’t there to know them. A lot of the time though, he wishes he knew less, wishes half his knowledge, half his thoughts, half his memories, would just vanish.

Especially now, when he’s cowering underneath the cowers like he did when he was younger and his dad wasn’t home and his mother was in the hospital and he was just so _scared_ , it was a baseless fear, even looking back he isn’t sure what exactly it was he was afraid of. But he was, so passionately, so fiercely that sometimes it took hours for his father to convince him to come out.

He had never understood it, but when it finally stopped, when the feelings of terror slowly lessened until they were gone he took solace in the fact that there would probably never be anything that would make him feel like that again. And he was sure of that, even when Scott turned into a werewolf, when people started dying –even when his dad was taken and Stiles was sure that he would be left alone and he’d lose them both. It came close, but nothing quite matched the terror that was his younger self’s panic.

Though, here he was, just like before, the same panic, the same terror, leaving him just as terrified but this time with a reason. This time he could perfectly place the reason behind his fear, the reason he was holding a blanket over himself so tightly his knuckles turned white.

_We’re going to kill each and everyone one of them Stiles._

He bit his lip and closed his eyes, it wasn’t here, it wasn’t real. He relaxed his hands and moved them closer so he could see them clearly.

One, two, three, four, fi –

_Counting fingers won’t make us go away, Stiles._

His vision blurred and he lost count, fingers shaking too hard to try again he curled in on himself tighter and instead settled for just counting in his head.

_They blame you for what we did._

One, two, three

_Not us; not me –you._

Four, five, six, seven

_They hide lies quite easily._

Nine, eight –no eight, nine

_You don’t need to be a fox to trick._

T-ten, eleven, twelve

(He didn’t remember beginning to cry but he could feel it warm on his cheeks and cold splashing into his arms and feet.)

_And the pain is so much more delicious when it comes from someone so close._

T-thirteen, four-fourteen fif –

“Please stop, please.”

“Stiles, who are you talking to?”

The Nogitsune’s laugh echoed cruelly in his ear before fading away just as light flooded his room. It was dimmed through the blanket but still hit his eyes too harshly.

“Who is it? Go away, I wasn’t talking to anybody.” The light went away, but only because something – someone – was blocking it, small hints still shining through (ten separate locations).

“Stiles,” the voice –he wanted to place it, but he didn’t want to know –called again and a hand settled near the edge of his cover, he held onto it tighter.

“Don’t, please.” He wanted to say go away again, to make them leave. He wanted to be alone, but he didn’t.

They settled next to him and said nothing, he didn’t know for how long they sat there next to him, holding his hand through his flimsy shield. Eventually though, the pressure on his hand left, and by the time he moved his head out from under he was alone in his room, in the dark, again.

He had ten fingers, and the poster on his wall was as legible as ever.

He was awake, and fell asleep with a warm hand and the Nogitsune’s crooning in his ears.

-

‘[Received 07:14] Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can. –Arthur Ashe’

He and Kira don’t text often, in fact as much as Stiles’ likes her (he thinks they could be amazing friends) he finds it hard to be around her at all. He knows she understands (knows Scott doesn’t) and doesn’t mind, and he knows that someday he will be able to talk to her with ease but that time is not now.

In the meantime, she sends him inspirational quotes daily; sometimes he responds, sometimes he does not. He knows she knows he appreciates them anyway.

‘[Received 23 hours ago] Even if you fall on your face, you’re still moving forward. –Victor Kiam’

It’s from yesterday, sometimes he lets them pile up and reads a bunch of them in one go, takes a deep breath and tries to take the motivation to heart.

‘[Sent 07:21] Thanks’

‘[Received 07:23] no probs :)’

 -

(He trips later on in the day, everything goes flying and he ends up sitting in a crowded hallway surrounded by papers (39) and books (5) laughing so hard he tears up a little bit. Scott rushes over and helps him pick everything up, shooting him concerned looks as the kids passing by start to give them some room –mainly trying to keep away from Stiles probably.

When he looks up the hallway has emptied out a bit and Malia is shooting him a confused look from where she stands beside Kira –who is smiling as wide as he thinks he might be.

It’s the happiest he’s felt in a while and when Scott looks over eyes wide he starts laughing all over again. Scott joins in after a moment, though he thinks it might be for different reasons.)

-

‘[Sent 20:46] Can you come over?’

‘[Received 20:47] Sure’

His fingers hover over the screen, and he wonders if he should send a thank you. He’s still deciding when he hears the window open.

“Thanks,” he blurts out, “for coming I mean.” He continues, and feels his face heat up.

“It’s not like I was doing anything.”

He taps his fingers, one at a time though he isn’t really counting (he is), and tries to focus on why he called Derek here.

“So, like, you know during the kanima stuff I talked to Ms. Morell a couple of times.” He tries to remember her then and not at Eichen house. “She said it good to,” Breathe in. One. Breathe out. Two. “Talk, about things and you seemed like the best option.”

“Scott and Dad are just, they’d try so hard to understand even though they really don’t. They’re supportive, you know. But like, too supportive and it’s –it’s hard, right? Lydia is great but she’s Lydia and –well it doesn’t really make sense but it does to me. I barely know Malia –and it’s sort of hard to like look at her but that’s something else –and Kira is difficult for a whole different reason.”

“Then you’re sort of close, and we’re friends right? I think we’re friends and you probably understand even just a little bit and you seemed like the best option. But, uh, you don’t have to I’d get it just – ” He takes a deep breath, and tries to calm his racing heart.

There’s a look on Derek’s face he can’t describe, and he doesn’t know what it means and –

“Stiles.”

“Yeah”

“Stop thinking so much, it’s fine, you can talk.”

He blinks, takes a deep breath, realizes he’s been staring at Derek the whole time and looks away, and then lets out the breath he’s been holding.

“Alright, alright.” He scrunches his eyes and clenches his hands so tight he’s sure he’s leaving bright red crescents in his palms.

“Don’t” Derek says, placing a hand over his.

“Right, right.” He opens his eyes and stares at a blank space of the wall –sometimes he misses the wall of paper (he never counted them) and string (there were so many) but not really. “I count a lot, like, at first it was just to check if I was awake but sometimes I just don’t feel right unless I’m counting –I counted to 748 between classes one time. And I guess it’s not that bad but it’s weird right?” He doesn’t wait for answer, because he’s really mostly talking to himself.

He taps his fingers again and counts them out absentmindedly.

“I guess that’s the least worrying thing –just a new habit or something. It’s about as calming as it is terrifying but, I can’t, you know, stop, so.” He trails off, reaches twenty-seven and starts again. “Anyways, not the point, was supposed to talk about,” he waves his hands in what he hopes is a vague but specific ‘Nogitsune trauma and all that’ gesture, “so I guess, I should.”

Derek takes a hold of his hand, the one that isn’t tapping his thigh one finger at a time, and he relaxes a little bit.

“Don’t say anything alright? Not until the end.” Derek nods, and he continues. “Okay, so, logically, theoretically, rationally, I know that what we – it – did isn’t my fault. You guys have assured me enough times, but, like, I still do blame myself. Maybe if I had been stronger, held out a bit longer, not been such an easy target…” He trails off, wonders if it would’ve been different if he had succeeded in freezing to death back in Malia’s den, the Nogitsune could apparently work with a dead host but maybe it would’ve still done something –after all he would’ve died while possessed.

Derek squeezes his hand and he reigns his focus back in. “Right, and it’s just hard to like, look at you guys, talk to you guys. Like maybe it wasn’t me but it was my face. It ran a sword through Scott, threw you across a room made you almost kill Chris, I mean, what it did to Lydia. She smiles at me and I don’t know how. I don’t know how any of you do it because I look in the mirror and see a killer I see a monster and I don’t see me. Or at least, not the me everyone else does.”

“I –it –we controlled the oni, ordered them to kill Allison. All that damage was done by my hands, my body –this one isn’t even mine I don’t know whose it is.” His breaths are coming in quicker and he taps faster, speeding up his rhythm and tries to focus on the pressure of Derek’s hand. “It’s selfish but I just wish everyone was as lost as me, because it feels even worse when all of you guys are moving along and I can’t move, I’m stuck here because I don’t know where here is anymore.”

“And then, some days things almost make sense, like I’ve finally got one foot firmly in the ground and the next someone just kicks it out from under me. And I want to say I’m trying but, sometimes I just hide under the covers and pretend I don’t still hear its voice talking to me when it gets too quiet.” Derek shifts beside him and he wonders if Derek was the one who walked into his room that day, if he’s realizing that that’s who he was talking to –or maybe he’s just uncomfortable and changing positions.

“I want to get better but the longer I take the less I know what that is. Just keep on going on and on, until my cracks are too big, too many.” His fingers still and he takes the moment to run it through his hair. “I guess, I’m, uh, done? Probably missed some things. It’s hard to just, say, all at once. I think I feel better? Lighter, maybe.”

He doesn’t know what he expects Derek to say, if he even wants him to say anything at all.

Derek doesn’t say anything though, he sits there next to him and continues to hold his hand, rubbing idle circles (thirteen, fourteen, fifteen) around him. They end up falling asleep like that, together, still holding hands.

He doesn’t know what he wanted but he thinks he enjoys being able to just spill his heart out and just have a comforting presence stay beside him. Reassure him with only their company.

-

_But tonight I'll need you to stay._

_Tonight I'll need you to stay!_

-

At some point in the night he and Derek ended up intertwined with one another, Derek curled around him with one leg thrown over and Stiles is resting his head against Derek’s chest, but their hands still remained clutched tightly.

He stares at it, counts their fingers and then their knuckles and then the rises and falls of Derek’s chest. Catalogues every part of this moment in numbers, some stagnant and others ever changing.

There are 34 breaths between Stiles waking up and Derek waking up.

There are 209 heartbeats until Derek’s mouth quirks up slightly and says good morning.

The sunlight shifts 7 times before they get up and move to go downstairs.

They take 42 steps to arrive at the kitchen.

Their hands have been apart for 0 seconds when he grips Derek’s hand tighter and tells him thank you for being there.

The faucet drips 6 times while Derek pulls him in a bit closer.

His heart stops for 5 seconds when Derek kisses him; soft and gentle and sweet and so unlike what he thought kissing Derek would ever be like.

He does not count his fingers, because he knows for a fact this is real, but he does take the proximity to count everything he can about Derek.

Two eyes, six colours, nine when the light hits them, eleven in the dark, and twelve if you count the brilliant beta blue. One mouth; with two bunny teeth that peek out. He has three hundred and five eyelashes, one hundred and fifty-two on the left eye, and one hundred fifty-three on the right. There are too many hairs to count but they form one soft, dark, pretty looking shape.

Derek is one person, and so is Stiles, and so is everyone else. And that is enough, that’s all anyone needs and all anyone needs to be.

Stiles is one by himself, and more with others and even if he is lost and can’t count himself –can’t count on himself –others can help him do it until he can do it himself.

Stiles counts to five and rests his head against Derek’s shoulder.

He counts to ten and looks up.

Counts to fifteen and presses his lips to Derek’s.

Counts to twenty and smiles.

He loses track and feels, is, happy.

Loses track, but does not feel lost, and that, that is wonderful.

-

(Cracks don’t heal, they don’t mend, they get larger and spread out. But they can be filled, can be patched and it’s nothing like the original but it is still itself. At its core, it is still the same.

And that is him, that is Stiles. He maybe be cracked and broken but he is not beyond repair and he can and will fix himself up. He will not shatter because he is more than just that.)

**Author's Note:**

> Everything I have written for this fandom (aside from the really short two-short which is a drabble and not even fic) has been extremely angsty  
> And I used to only write fluff! But season 3B is angst heaven and I have fallen down so deep
> 
> All the fics I'm currently working on are rather happy though (minimal angst) so you guys can see that I am very much capable of writing happy things
> 
> -  
> [tumblr](http://www.tvvinsky.tumblr.com)


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